Renee Hale makes her point outside the Verity Baptist church in Sacramento.
Photograph: Sam Levin for the Guardian

Adele Sakler has struggled with feelings of intense depression in the days since a gunman killed 49 people in an LGBT nightclub in Orlando, Florida. “I’ve been crying a lot. I’m just so saddened,” said the 47-year-old queer woman, who lives in Sacramento in northern California.

But when Sakler heard that Roger Jimenez, a Christian pastor in her community, had given a sermon praising the deadliest mass shooting in modern US history – stating that Orlando is “a little safer tonight” and “the tragedy is that more of them didn’t die” – she felt physically ill.

Orlando massacre brings together Christians and gay community

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Sakler was one of about a hundred protesters who gathered on Wednesday night outside Jimenez’s Verity Baptist church, located in a nondescript office park just off the freeway, two hours north of San Francisco.

Wearing a small LGBT pride heart on her T-shirt, Sakler watched as congregants filed past the crowd of activists and a line of police officers. They were men and women in church outfits, couples holding hands, parents with crying babies, small children giggling – all of them hurrying inside, ignoring the cries of “We are Orlando!” from the protesters.

For some queer protesters, seeing the families in attendance was a painful reminder that people in suburban California share the hateful and violent beliefs of Jimenez – and that the pastor is not just a fringe extremist preaching to anonymous bigots in the dark corners of YouTube.

“We have so far to go,” said Sakler, wiping tears from her eyes while clutching a rainbow candle.

The tense scene that unfolded outside the church – where protesters screamed “Would you kill me?” as the silent parishioners passed by – offered a window into the anguish of LGBT people across the country, who are coming to terms with the unprecedented attack on the queer community less than one year after same-sex marriage became the law of the land in the US.

Men guard the door at the Verity Baptist church. Photograph: Sam Levin for the Guardian

In the face of international outrage, Jimenez didn’t back down, instead telling a local reporter outside his door: “When people die who deserve to die, it’s not a tragedy.”

While many stories have emerged of Christians and LGBT people uniting in the wake of the horrific violence, the Jimenez controversy sheds light on the overt bigotry that is still pervasive in pockets of the country – even in a liberal state like California.

It’s the toxic message of Jimenez and other religious leaders that many believe helps create a culture in which violence against queer people is encouraged, in which the Orlando gunman Omar Mateen, reportedly a “regular” at Pulse, would choose a Latin-themed gay dance night to execute his attack.

While politicians and pundits have debated the extent to which the shooter’s apparent embrace of Isis motivated the attack, LGBT activists have urged the public not to overlook the role homophobia probably played in the mass killing – an upsetting reality sharpened by remarks like Jimenez’s speech.

Gregory Herek, a psychology professor at the University of California, Davis and an expert on LGBT hate crimes, said Jimenez’s sermon represents an extreme – but is not far removed from the condemnation of homosexuality that is still common in Christian churches across denominations.

“This incident in Sacramento fits with my take,” he said, “which is that anti-gay violence and anti-gay prejudice arise from the stigma that’s associated with homosexuality in American society even today. It’s something people learn and that gets reinforced.”

Manly Perry, a Texas pastor who has given a sermon at Jimenez’s church, said in a phone interview on Wednesday that the Sacramento preacher was a “mentor” who is skilled at bringing people into the church – and has a wide reach.

“That church in my opinion has the best-organized program and outreach in the community,” he said. “He’ll be looked at as a hatemonger, but he’s actually the exact opposite … He’s got a genuine love for people. He wants to see people saved.”

Perry also repeated several times: “The Bible is very clear that homosexuals should have the death penalty.”

By 6.30pm on Wednesday evening, before the 7pm weekly service was set to begin, protesters had surrounded the small church, which is an unremarkable one-story building that’s easy to miss in the monotonous suburban office park.

A rotating group of five men – presumably parishioners, some wearing matching maroon suit jackets – stood guard outside the front entrance next to a black sign with “Verity Baptist Church” written in small letters.

They repeatedly ignored protesters who stood feet away from them across from yellow tape police had set up. The activists demanded that the men explain why they believe gays should be killed, with some taunting the churchgoers as “closeted” queers themselves.

The anger was palpable as some screamed at the men, who sometimes laughed and took cellphone video of the protest, but otherwise rarely acknowledged the activists.

Asked if anyone could observe the service, one man at the entrance said, “You have to be a member,” prompting protesters to request to join.

During the service, which appeared to be attended by several dozen people, the church closed the blinds and little was visible from the outside. Jimenez, it seemed, slipped out a back door at the end of the night, and police helped escort other parishioners to their cars while protesters shouted “terrorists!” and “skinheads!” at them, though some took a softer approach, saying, “Preach love, not hate!” and “We love you.”

Protester Renee Hale, a 49-year-old truck driver, said she has a “very religious background” and continues to struggle with being gay.

“I have a lifestyle that’s not acceptable,” she said. “But I still believe God loves me.”

Carrying a sign that read “We are all created in the image of God”, Hale said she felt it was important to stand up to Jimenez’s speech. “It sends this message that our lives don’t matter.”

Rick Guerrero, another protester, said he was previously an evangelical pastor, but eventually left the church due to its intolerance.

“It hurts me to see the men over there who think they love God,” said Guerrero, who is straight. “They are just being controlled by men.”

Liz Linale, 60, remembered the first time she saw the Westboro Baptist church protest against gay people, with signs praising Aids, when she marched in Washington DC in the 1990s. “I’ll never forget that.”

Jimenez’s remarks brought her back to that pain, she said, glancing toward the church with a sigh.